


Happy Birthday, Mr. Barber

by uglywombat



Category: Chris Evans (RPF), Defending Jacob (TV 2020), Defending Jacob - William Landay
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Birthday Sex, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Office Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24670966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglywombat/pseuds/uglywombat
Summary: Andy Barber is a world away from the life he once had, his family and world tragically gone. You have been working with his new practice on a case as a forensic accountant, tip-toeing over the line of professional and your heart. Until one night.
Relationships: Andy Barber/Original Female Character(s), Andy Barber/Reader, Andy Barber/You
Comments: 21
Kudos: 75





	Happy Birthday, Mr. Barber

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jtargaryen18 (snowqueen79)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowqueen79/gifts).



> So this is a birthday present for the beautiful, talented and immeasurably kind @jtargaryen18. You do so much for people and I am honoured to count you as a friend and sister. This follows on from the book, not the TV show! There’s a few Jamie related Easter Eggs thrown in 😉 thank you @caffiend-queen for beta’ing 💕

“I thought you had left hours ago.”

You can’t help but smile as the rich, tired voice caresses your space. Looking up, he’s leant against the doorway, his tie loosened and the top button is undone on his crisp white shirt. He’s clearly been running his hand through his hair as he’s delving into his latest pile of evidence, the dark blonde locks all fussed and out of place. His legs look miles long, one crossed over the other and the charcoal herringbone pants clinging against his well-defined legs. 

He looks tired, weary. A momentary drop in your gaze sees him fidgeting with the spot on his fingers that had proudly worn his wedding ring for nearly two decades. Your heart tugs and you force a small smile. 

“I’ve just finished writing up the report and I was double-checking before I emailed it to you,” you say, your hands fidgeting in your lap under the desk so he can’t see the flip-flopping of your stomach. “Sorry, you’re not waiting for me to close up are you?”

“Nah,” he drawls and slowly makes his way into the office, sitting on the ergonomic leather chair beside you, a little too close to be deemed professional. “I’m in no rush to get home.”

It’s a statement, a dark cloud that looms over his entire existence now laced with an edge of promise and it tugs on your heart. Every single person in the New England area, if not most of America knows about Andy Barber and the tragic tale that he is burdened to carry on his shoulders. 

In the short time you have been assisting in the case for the small Springfield firm, it has been fascinating to watch the range of looks and reactions to the infamous lawyer. From quiet awe to kid gloves, Andy is revered but keeps himself at a respectable distance from his colleagues. 

Working closely with him on this case has been intriguing. It’s not the first time you have been asked to audit financial records for a case as a forensic accountant and yet to have a close working relationship with the lead lawyer in previous cases. 

However, there is something about Andy that draws you in. And you know he feels the same. 

From the lingering azure eyes on your face as you go over financial statements into the late hours of the night, or the heat of his thigh next to yours first thing in the day as he draws parallels to legislation over morning coffee…

There’s a chemistry you cannot deny and yet you desperately try to ignore. The man is in mourning for the wife and child ripped from his life. This is a working relationship and must remain a working relationship until the case is over. 

His scent is intoxicating; a creamy and warming mixture of red apple, coffee and spearmint, with back notes of wood. It is far too easy to lose yourself in the heady aroma and heat radiating from him. His aura is a distraction that really brings you to question your ability to remain professional around him. 

“Thank you by the way,” he said, resting on his forearms on the long boardroom oak table you have been calling your workspace for the past few months and looks over the report you are finalising. 

You can’t breathe, his scent and the heat radiating off his arm beside yours is all too much. “For what?”

“The cake. You didn’t have to do that, it was really sweet of you. I haven’t had cake since…” his voice trails as he fidgets with your pen and you can’t help but notice the small bruising on his hand from the punching bag.

“It’s not a problem, really,” you say, your voice small and timid and instantly betraying your well-frayed nerves, “I’d have made it myself but the last time I made a cake I gave everyone food poisoning and received a lifetime ban on baking for the office.”

Andy chuckles, the creases by his eyes deepening. “Well, thank you for buying the cake.” There’s a renewed energy in his voice and body language that naturally makes you relax a little. 

You sit in silence; a strange mix between comfortable and not. There’s something calming about being in his presence with his relaxed demeanour, and yet you can’t ignore the rapid tempo of your heart and butterflies in your stomach every time he is near. 

“It’s been really nice getting to work with you over these last few months,” he says, the pen tapping against the lacquered grain of the table non-sequentially and out of tempo, “and get to know you.” Your heart lurches and you dare to look over at him, his focus squarely on the stainless steel pen in his hand.

“Thank you for welcoming me into the firm so warmly,” you say and reach over to quieten the stressed tapping, his hand burning and soft under your hand. 

He chuckles and you fill with regret as he pulls away, only to be taken by surprise when he links his hand with yours. It’s so comforting and sweet. And then your eyes meet. 

“Please tell me the damn report is finished so I can kiss you finally.” His voice is hot and sinfully profound as his free hand comes to cup your cheek and draw you closer to him. 

Your smile, bright and beaming warms the cracked pieces of his heart he has hidden under piles of self-hatred and regrets over the past few years since he had upped and left Newton, broken and lost. 

Your hand mirrors his, his well-groomed beard surprisingly soft under your hand. “Close enough.”

You’re the one to initiate the kiss, his lips plump and pliable under yours. The faint scent of bourbon teases your senses as Andy deepens the kiss. It’s been years since you’ve been kissed like this, men usually threatened by your intelligence and the confidence in which you carry yourself.

You catch your breath, your foreheads touching as Andy gently caresses your hand with his. “I’ve waited for months to do that.” 

Your soft laugh is melodic and his eyes instantly darken at the sound. “Was it worth the wait?”

He smiles, a genuinely warm smile, one you have only seen as you’ve cracked jokes over the photocopier or deep in conversation over beers at the rundown little bar across the road from the firm. It’s a smile he rarely shares with colleagues or clients. The thought sets your heart aflutter. “Fuck yes,” his Boston drawl like a fine feather over your skin. “I can’t get you out of my head. You’re like a song.” 

He kisses you with ardour, his hands coming to grasp your cheeks, deepening the kiss as you face each other. Your hands caress his soft, styled beard, something you have craved since you first met him all those months ago in his small office. It’s silkier than you had imagined and a faint earthy scent sends flutters through down to your core. 

He pulls away with a gasp, his hands desperately clinging to your hair as he battles the warring thoughts in his head. God, is he ready for this? Has he allowed himself to mourn for the life he’d once had? Or has he buried it deep underneath work? 

“Andy, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” God, the way your lip wobbles as you speak. “I can pack up my shit, go and when I see you at the trial we can pretend this didn’t happen.”

But then you look at him with those sweet, doe-like eyes and he is warm and safe. Long fingers caress your cheeks, the faint pink of your blush still evident, as he searches your eyes for clarity. “No, don’t go. I want this so much.”

His kiss is more careful, more considerate as he loses himself in the complex scent of the perfume he has found himself dreaming of; lavender, patchouli, coconut, bergamot… It’s fresh, soothing and awakens a myriad of feelings he has kept at bay and hidden under a pile of self-hatred. 

The heady, emotion-filled kiss doesn’t break as you slowly climb into his lap, your legs falling on either side of the chair as you both desperately try to feel each other’s warmth and comfort. Your fingers lock into his dark locks as you gently draw your clothed core over the evident bulge in his tailored pants.

A hand grips your neck as Andy breaks the kiss, heated and blown pupils burning your gaze. “I really want to be a gentleman and take my time with you, take you for dinner or a drink, but I gotta be honest…” his breath quivers on the air, “I don’t think I got it in me.”

Your head swims with infinite filthy images of Andy, ones that have crept up on you in the dark of night or in the midst of a meeting. You want this, so so bad. You want more than a filthy tryst. “I don’t give my heart easily, Andy Barber.”

The laugh lines on his face deepen as he smiles before kissing you tenderly, your heart expanding in an instant.

“And I don’t give mine.”

“Then you have me.”

This kiss is languid and slow, as though a silent dialogue is shared between you, you open yourself to each other. Years of pain, guilt and self-loathing wash away with each heated nip and gasp. 

It isn’t romantic like the movies, as Andy picks you up and places you on the table; your hip slamming into the hard oak table and the leatherback chair toppling over as he nearly trips over his own feet. Your velvety laugh puts him at ease as he fumbles with the buttons on your blouse, your hands floundering with his belt. 

The kiss grows sloppy as you both struggle to multitask, desperate to keep the connection and feel each other. The belt successfully unbuckled and open, you break the kiss to unbutton the enviably soft wool pants as Andy takes the opportunity to scent your neck. 

“Your scent drives me insane, sweetheart,” he croons, his hands slowly peeling your skirt over your thighs and grazing over your clothed core like a tease. 

“You’re one to talk,” you taunt him, drawing your hand down his underwear and stroking his rock hard cock, long and thick. “I can’t concentrate when I’m around you.”

You yelp as he drags you closer to the edge of the long table and kisses you hungrily. It’s frantic, a sense of urgency and need overtaking you both. Andy all but rips your delicate lace panties from your hips, the fabric making an all-mighty sound, but it’s easily forgotten as he eases his cock into you.

The urgency imperative is lost as a warm wash of calm comes over the room and you relish in the feeling of being whole. His hands cling to your face, kissing you languidly and soulfully as he slowly fucks you. Your hands cherish to the large muscles of his arms and soft beard as you wrap your legs around his hips. 

It has been an age since you have been with a man; someone so attuned to your needs and wants that it hurts to breathe. So profound are the emotions coursing through your veins and his, years of torture and torment evaporates. 

There is no urgency in his movements, in your kiss as you revel in the feeling of his cock dragging along your tight walls instinctively clenching around him. 

Your orgasm is like submerging into a bath of creamy warm, heavily scented water. It is all-consuming and bone-crushing as he works you through the overwhelming ebb and flow of your pleasure. It sets him over the edge, filling you and claiming you over the desk you have spent months bonding over. 

You’re in no rush to redress, finally, send in your report and leave the practice office, sharing tender kisses and caresses before allowing Andy to pull you into the cool autumn night. His hand is clasped in yours as he walks you to your car.

Pressing you against the car, he kisses you possessively, a renewed hunger he can’t satiate now he’s had a taste.

“Come back to mine,” you huskily mewl, your hands gripping the lapels of his coat, “let me give you a birthday to remember.”

He coquettishly grins and clasps onto your face. “Happy fucking birthday to me.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always welcome x


End file.
